


The Utterances of Storms

by RC_McLachlan



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-Pretty much everything tbh, Pre-Slash, Pre-graduation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 05:34:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8274670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RC_McLachlan/pseuds/RC_McLachlan
Summary: Aided by an explosion of sound, Bittle soars.
Or, the one in which Bitty does a full figure skating routine and everyone loses their minds over how damn good he is.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This (unbeta'd and completely self-indulgent) story literally woke me out of a sound sleep at 3:40am. I wish I were joking.

Bittle, after laughing into his cup of tub juice for a good forty seconds, explains with only a little bit of a slur to his words that he’d need time—his mother would have to ship things and he’d need to bother someone named Katya for music.

Jack can’t hear what Ransom says in reply over the din of the party, but Bittle nods a couple of times and grins, cheeks flushed with alcohol.

It’s probably nothing.

+

Shitty texts him in the middle of World War II in Europe.

_dude get to faber asap_

It’s not just the lack of exclamation points that makes him leave class early—something he’s never done before, and the betrayed look that Professor Shahabuddin gives him as he’s sorry-ing his way past everyone else in his row tattoos itself on the part of the brain where the ocean of his guilt lives. It’s not just the knowledge that Shitty has his schedule memorized and would never dare interrupt if it weren't important enough to rattle the cage of what he calls “The Zimmerbeast” that spurs Jack into running across campus.

It’s the “dude.”

The last time Shitty called anyone dude—a word, he’s explained on more than one occasion to anyone who stopped long enough to listen, that ranks the lowest of all terms of address born of the Patriarchy—he was on the phone with a 911 operator, because one of the lacrosse players demonstrated his “mad knife skillz” to the Haus partygoers by chopping off his thumb at the first knuckle. “Dude, you need to send someone here, like, immediately. There’s some serious arterial spray happening. I never thought I’d say this about a lax bro, but I’m almost impressed.”

(It was hard to hear him over the guy screaming for someone to pick his thumb up off the floor while Ransom screamed back that no one wanted to touch his dirty, lacrosse stick-fondling digit. Lardo, calmly taking a sip from her red cup, said that if she picked it up she was keeping it.)

Despite the dread clinging to him like the worst kind of deadweight, Jack makes it to Faber in record time, and spends every second it takes to get from the front entrance to the rink bracing himself for whatever horror he’s about to see.

But instead of one of the guys lying on the ice with a jagged bone sticking out of their skin, there’s only Bittle, who’s standing in the Neutral Zone and stretching his leg.

The wave of relief that crests him nearly sends him to the floor.

Shitty, on the other side of the boards, is saying something to Holster, flapping his hands excitedly, before breaking off when he spies Jack. “Brah, you made it!”

“What the hell,” Jack demands, breathless, wobbling a little as he makes his way over. “I was in class!”

“My handsome son, there’s nothing that can be said about World War II that hasn’t already aired on The History Channel.”

“Yeah, man,” Holster says, coming up on Jack’s left with a bright grin. “Everyone knows that aliens were designing weapons for the SS.”

Jack stares at him, robbed entirely of speech, for a long moment before turning to Shitty and growling, “Someone better be on _fire_.”

“Well, not yet.” Shitty lolls his head back against the glass and hollers, “Bits, you almost ready?”

“Shitty, it’s been almost five years since I last did anything like this. I will _tell_  y'all when I'm—Jack! Why are you—don’t you have class?” Eyes wide, Bittle glides over to where they’re all standing. He’s wearing some kind of black, skintight… thing.

Jack makes a mental note to buy a bottle of Zicam. Difficulty swallowing is usually the first sign of a cold and he can’t afford to get sick. Finals are next week.

“Aw, Bits, like I’d let him miss this,” Shitty says. His eyes say ‘innocent’, but his mustache says 'are you kidding, brah, don’t trust this fucking guy for a second.’ “Such an auspicious occasion! We need our captain!”

“'Auspicious’,” Jack echoes dubiously. “What’s going on?”

There’s so much blood in Bittle’s cheeks that Jack’s honestly worried about his body shutting down. Bittle presses up against the glass and hisses, “'I’m texting Lardo, brah, nothing to worry about’ is what you told me. Shitty B. Knight, did you pull him out of _class_ for this? I hope you’re mentally and physically prepared to never touch another pie again, you lying liar who lies, because I'm—”

“Bits, we’re good to go!” Ransom comes jogging down one of the seat sections, grinning so wide that Jack’s own cheeks ache in sympathy. He looks possessed. “All you need to do is give Lardo the cue—oh, hey, Jack. Glad you made it in time.”

“Made it in time for _what_.” The _you assholes_ goes unsaid but is heavily implied.

Groaning, Bittle drops his face into his hand. He’s wearing one black glove. It has rhinestones on the knuckles.

“Jack,” Shitty says, tone as grave as it’s never been in the time that Jack’s known him, and if Jack didn’t know better he’d think Shitty’s about to tell him that the team has been disbanded, “you’re about to bear witness to something holy. Today, in the year of our Lord, two thousand and—”

Luckily, Holster breaks in with an excited, “Bitty’s gonna _skate_ for us!”

“Fuck yeah he is!” Ransom bumps fists with him. “I’ve been waiting my whole life for this moment.”

Bittle drops his hand, incredulous. “You asked me to do this only a week ago.”

“Well, yeah, but I’ve been waiting since day one,” Ransom assures him, utterly sincere. “In my _heart_ , bro.”

The last time Jack was this confused, he was waking up with an IV in his arm and his father silently weeping at his bedside. “I left class to watch Bittle _skate_?”

Shitty heaves a disappointed sigh, like Jack has let him spectacularly down.

“Not hockey-skate, Jack,” Ransom says, just as thwarted. “Like, _skate_ -skate. Figure skate.”

Jack blinks and then looks at Bittle, whose black and sparkly unitard suddenly makes a whole lot of sense. The realization must be obvious on his face, because Bittle smiles and drops his gaze, a little bashful, a little amused.

“Ransom dared me at the party last week to do one of my old routines, and I’m not one to back down from a dare, but I didn’t have any of my stuff. My mother shipped me my skates and one of my better, uh, ensembles. Wasn’t anything you needed to ditch class for, Jack. Sorry about all this.” He lifts his chin and fixes Shitty with a glare. “And if he knows what’s good for him, Shitty’s sorry too.”

“Yeah, Bits, I’m devastated.” The big smile on his face doesn’t quite match the sentiment.

 _“I don’t know what you dipshits are doing down there, but can we get this show on the road? I have class at 3.”_ Lardo’s annoyance comes in loud and clear over the speakers and echoes throughout the empty rink. Jack looks up and spies her in the sound booth.

“You heard the lady,” Holster bellows, and Ransom throws a companionable arm around his shoulders, all smiles. “Chop chop, Bitty, we’re dying here.”

The stern bent to Bittle’s eyebrows softens, smoothing out under a peek of pleasure, and Bittle’s hand makes a shooing motion. “Then get your dumb butts in the stands. _Honestly_.”

Laughing, Shitty and Holster-and-Ransom scramble for the nearest section of seats, pushing into the center of the fifth row.

“You really don’t have to stay for this,” Bittle says, almost too quietly to be heard through the glass.

Jack shakes his head and tries on a reassuring smile. “No, I’m curious. It’ll be interesting to see what you can, uh, do. On the ice. You know, with your skating.”

Why do people let him say words?

But Bittle either doesn’t pick up on the awkwardness or chooses to ignore it completely, because he flashes Jack a brilliant smile, cheeks rosy from the cold. “Well, go grab a seat, Mr. Zimmermann. You’re in for quite a show!”

With that, Bittle pushes away from the boards and heads for the center of the ice.

Jack goes to join the others, scooting in next to Holster, and rubs at his chest. He climbed _maybe_ eight stairs, but he’s breathing like he’s just done an hour’s worth of suicide drills. Maybe if he asks nicely, Bittle’ll make him some chicken soup, help him stave off whatever he’s coming down with. It’s the kind of thing Bittle would do.

In the center circle, Bittle sinks to his knees with a startling grace, then bends backwards until his head touches the ice.

“Damn, son,” Shitty whispers. “Bitty’s hella bendy. Bendy Bitty. Benty.”

“Bet you ten bucks he skates to _Crazy in Love_ ,” Ransom says to Holster, nudging him with his arm.

Holster grins. “I’ll take that bet. It’s gonna be _Blow_.” At Jack’s confused look, he clarifies, “Beyoncé.”

No one on this planet would call Jack an expert, but [**the tumble of piano**](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4MCjU-Du3eI) that drips out of the speakers doesn’t sound like any Beyoncé song he’s heard blaring from Bittle’s room. It reminds him of November rain against the window of his mom’s beloved garden atrium back home, where he used to sit and dissolve into the water sliding down the panes.

A heavy drum pounds twice, lightning striking, and Bittle’s shoulders jerk to match it, followed by a frenetic and almost old-world violin. With every strike of the drum, the contorted body on the ice jolts as if hit, and slowly Bittle rises, arms lifted, each move robotic but somehow fluid. The violin smooths out into a lovely keen, and with the kind of grace no human being should possess, Bittle spins into a slow, perfect stand, like a swimmer under water and twisting toward the surface.

“Brah,” Ransom whispers, awed.

Bittle slips into an easy backward glide over the ice, like he’s flying, and Jack could watch this kind of confidence all day. He’s seen Bittle demonstrate his skating skills during practices and games; no one’s been able to match the speed and ease with which he does it, like he was born from the ice. Not even Jack.

The atmosphere changes, and he realizes that the music is building to something. That Bittle is, too. He’s a blur of black and gold, going so fast that Jack leans forward, breathless, every muscle in his legs locked in anticipation for the moment when—

Aided by an explosion of sound, Bittle _soars_.

“Yooo!” Shitty howls, erupting to his feet.

Bittle breaks from the spiral and lands on one foot, light as a feather, kicking the other straight out for balance. He reaches out, grasping at nothing, and tilts his head back in sorrow, flowing over the ice like he’s about to disappear into the wind. Helplessly, Jack’s hands drift up to clutch at his own throat.

“Did you fuckers _see_ that?! Fucking unreal!”

Holster’s jaw hangs slack. “That had to have been eight feet high.”

“Holy shit, look at him go!” Ransom hisses, grabbing Jack’s arm and gesturing wildly at the ice.

The circles that Bittle skates in grow smaller and smaller until he’s a glittering black [vortex](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2VuosSk9zU&feature=youtu.be&t=10s), and then a crack rings out like a lightning strike, audible over even the music, as one of Bittle’s blades slams down hard—toe first—to bring everything to a sudden halt. Ransom gives a loud whoop and fist pumps, and Shitty screams, “FUCK YEAH! GET IT, BITS!”

Whether or not he hears them is a mystery. Bittle drags both hands through his hair and lets his head fall back, lost to the music, to whatever storm he’s fighting against, then slips back into motion again.

This is something that has no place amid the vitriol and violence of a hockey game, where bodies are used as weapons and pain is fuel, and once upon a time, if Jack had seen a teammate do this, he would have had them thrown from the line without a second thought. Bittle’s figure skating has been an asset to the team—his speed is unbeatable—but seeing this now, watching Bittle move like a living storm, is nothing short of breathtaking. Jack’s legs cramp with the need to get out there, to try and be even a little bit that good, but there’s no way he could ever hope to catch up. Bittle is a creature that belongs to the air and ice now, too fast and too far away; he’d leave Jack completely behind.

The violin changes again, saws across Jack’s spine with frantic glee, and Bittle answers by bending back, taking a skate into his hands, and spinning until he’s little more than abstract art. He pulls the skate up, leg stretching impossibly until the blade hangs above his head like a [threat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MaAqexrkOM&feature=youtu.be&t=1m45s). With a sinuous turn, he straightens and drops his foot, rotating slowly, keeping time with the violin, which sings sweetly. But as the music begins to build again, Bittle kicks back into motion and meets it, a flash of black over the ice as his speed grasps for the impossible.

“Fuck, here it comes,” Shitty breathes, and without taking his eyes off the ice he reaches for the hand closest to his. Ransom clutches at it with both of his.  

Jack turns back in time to see Bittle brace himself against whatever’s about to happen. He holds his breath.

Just as the music bursts with renewed vigor, Bittle launches himself into the air in a perfectly executed [backflip](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=orbdB3REL6w&feature=youtu.be&t=55s).

“NO FUCKING WAY!” Ransom shrieks.

Jack’s on his feet with no memory of getting there, all of the breath clutched in his lungs punching out of him like he’s just taken the worst check of his career, and Bittle lands on one foot without so much as a wobble.

“I knew there was something fucking weird about the way cookies just _appear_ whenever he’s around,” Holster says faintly. “But this clinches it. We have to burn him at the stake.”

“He’s not a _witch_ ,” Ransom snaps. “I’m almost 40% sure.”

“That was some black magic shit right there. How the fuck did he do that without _dying_?! Why is he not dead?!”

He doesn’t hear them. They don’t exist. Everything has fallen away. If Gordie Howe descended from on high to personally hand him the Stanley Cup, Jack would never notice, because Bittle slows down, comes back from wherever he’s been the last four minutes, and picks his ending. He spins a few times, turning back to a light rain alongside the piano, and puddles back onto the ice, spine bent and head back, arms thrown over his head. Spent.

The storm leaves him. The song ends. The silence that falls is louder than any cheering crowd that Jack has ever heard.

Until Shitty breaks it by demanding, “The _fuck_ just happened?”

“History, bro,” Ransom whispers, clutching his hand. “We just saw history being made.”

“Did anyone film it?!”

“Holtzy, I could barely remember where I was on the Time-Space Continuum, let alone how to use a phone.” Shitty runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head, stunned. “Jesus flag-waving Christ on a bicycle.”

On the ice, Bittle pushes up and waves at the soundbooth, all smiles. There’s a staticky scratch, and then Lardo’s voice comes over the loudspeaker. _“That was fuckin’ wild, Bits.”_

It lights a fire under them, and suddenly Shitty, Holster, and Ransom are barreling down the stairs and onto the rink. Bittle goes down hard, laughing. Jack slowly approaches, even though he’s never once slipped on ice while wearing sneakers, and stands back a ways, watching.

“HOW COULD YOU KEEP THIS FROM ME?!” Shitty wails, clutching Bittle’s head to his chest. “I SHOWED YOU HOW TO SWEET TALK THE BARISTA AT ANNIE’S INTO GIVING YOU AN EXTRA SHOT OF ESPRESSO FOR FREE AND _THIS_ IS HOW YOU FUCKING REPAY ME?!”

“Seriously, Bits.” Holster has never sounded so devastated—not even when the volleyball girl he’d been crushing on for months turned down a threesome with him and Ransom. “We wouldn’t have told anyone about your deal with Satan. You could’ve _trusted_ us, bro.”

Ransom makes a thoughtful noise. “Think you could do one of those flips during a game? We’d probably get at least four goals before the other team picked their jaws off the ice.”

The fey creature Jack just saw dancing with a storm is nowhere to be found; Bittle is as bright and impossibly infectious as ever, laughing so hard that he can barely eke out an apology to Shitty, who’s alternating between shaking him and shouting "HOW ARE YOU NOT IN THE OLYMPICS" into his hair.

“Hey!” Lardo calls, waving from the entrance to the ice, her phone in her hand. “Who wants an instant replay?”

“Fuck _yeah_ I do!” Shitty practically drops Bittle in his haste to skid over to Lardo. “I need proof this wasn’t a fever dream!”

Ransom reaches down and fistbumps Bittle before following Holster over. All three of them huddle around Lardo’s phone, which plays a tinny version of a familiar piano.

“I don’t know about this 'making a deal with Satan’ business,” Bittle muses, smiling fondly at the others. “But I’m glad they enjoyed the show.”

Huffing a laugh, Jack holds out his hand and pulls Bittle to his feet. “Ransom's 40% sure you’re not a witch.”

“That’s down at least 15% from when I made him that sweet potato-bacon pie. I must be losing my touch.” But Bittle’s grinning like it’s the best compliment he’s ever been paid.

“Shitty’s right, you know.”

“How’s that?”

 _Zicam_ , Jack thinks, and fights against the tightness in his throat to get the words out. “You know. You're… you’re really good, Bittle. That was some serious skill. You _could_ be in the Olympics.”

“Aww, Jack,” Bittle says, beaming. “That’s mighty kind of you to say, but this was actually the routine that disqualified me from the Junior Regionals.”

How is that even possible? Jack’s watched Olympic figure skating here and there, and none of those competing demonstrated even a fraction of the effortless skill that Bittle showed. Not a single one.

His face must give him away, because Bittle laughs. “The backflip is an illegal move. I could’ve taken it out, but it felt… I dunno, incomplete without it. Didn’t have the heart to change it.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” Jack doesn’t know what he means to imply there—that without it the routine really would be less, or that without it Bittle wouldn’t be at Samwell at all—so he just lets it hang there between them.

Bittle’s cheeks are the color of a pink sky, the kind that happens after a storm rolls through, and he drops his chin to hide the grateful smile that he must think Jack can’t see. Jack wants to brush his hand there, but he can’t. He’s still got it wrapped around Bittle’s.

Dropping Bittle’s hand, Jack clears his throat and looks over to the others, who are still glued to Lardo’s phone. “But… you know, still. You’re definitely Olympic material. Gonna up and leave us for the gold, eh, Bittle?”

The smile on Bittle’s face doesn’t budge an inch, but it’s somehow smaller, and the rhinestones that swirl up the black spandex don’t seem to glint as brightly as they had a moment ago. Jack feels an apology nudge up against the lump in his throat. He doesn’t even know what he’s sorry for, just that he is, and opens his mouth to say so.

“Jack,” Bittle says softly. “You’re the one who’s gonna up and leave.”

The apology shrivels and dies on his tongue.

With that cheerful, dim smile still plastered across his face, Bittle pats Jack’s arm. “Glad you enjoyed the show, though! What’s say I get out of this nonsense and we head back to the Haus? I gotta up my black magic game, and I’ve been meaning to tweak that sweet potato-bacon pie recipe. See if I don’t get up to 60%.”

He gives Jack’s arm another friendly pat before pushing away, gliding over to the others, accepting their praise and chirps happily. Ransom throws his arm around Bittle’s shoulders, practically dwarfing him, and herds him off the ice.

“Jacky boy!” Shitty calls, waving. “You communing with the ice or are you coming with?”

His hand is shaking. He clenches it into a fist at his side and doesn’t think about why it feels so empty. “I, uh, I’m coming.”

Shitty gives him an unreadable look for a long moment. “You okay?”

“It’s nothing. I’m right behind you.”

But there’s going to come a time when he won’t be. He’s going to leave everything behind soon: the routine of his classes, the family he’s found here, the easiness, the rightness, the—

The boy born of ice and rain who dances with storms, reaching out desperately for someone who isn't there, before dissipating, empty-handed.

It’s not nothing.

It’s not nothing at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [tumblr](http://rcmclachlan.tumblr.com/post/151747869507/fic-the-utterances-of-storms-omgcp).


End file.
